Because
by Charmed Lassie
Summary: Anne feels their estrangement keenly, but explaining why would surely cause more sorrow for Mary. Post series one finale, eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This began as a drabble then it became a one-shot and now it's morphed into something else and will be on-going. One of those things I had to write, whether anybody reads it or not.

* * *

Perhaps it was easier to be despised for the pretext rather than the truth.

Anne turned over in her bed, attempting to get comfortable. It was unlikely indeed – comfort had been lacking since her arrival in this country. If it were not for the heat she would not sleep; it was the exhaustion seeping into her muscles that finally encouraged her eyes to close each night. In dreams she was free; in dreams they all were. It was her dreams that drew her mind to the truth. What had begun partly as a deliberate ploy to engineer a return to England had transformed into so much more, and dreams had allowed her to accept that Mary Johnson was far more than merely an unhappy woman whom it could be in her interests to befriend.

Today had been horrific, in so many ways. The revelation of her ability to read and write had wrought its damage on Mary. Seeing her sink to the floor in despair had struck Anne like an axe to the chest, then Reverend Johnson's refusal to comfort his wife following what he called her descent into 'paganism' lit a fuse she found it difficult to dampen. If she had been in the room with a bayonet she might have used it, noose or no. A shot to the heart was too quick for a man who hid behind his holy book while his wife grieved over their lost children.

Finding Mary alone at the unfinished church, Anne had tried in vain to plead her case. Ultimately, however, she ached to ease Mary's pain and if that were to be achieved by leaving her alone then so be it. In truth, perhaps that pain now, the need to distance herself from the woman she perceived to have deceived her, was only saving them both pain later. Anne knew that the manner of her affection for Mary was beyond the comprehension of everyone else in the settlement, not least the Reverend Johnson himself. If he was willing to have her flogged for deceiving his wife, what would he do if learned of her desires? Self-preservation was, naturally, a consideration. She had seen Elizabeth being flogged; her screams had ripped through them all. Anne was afraid of the pain, yes, but she was also afraid of causing Mary the pain she surely would if the truth came to light.

With a sigh, she turned onto her back and stared into the ripples of the canvas fluttering above her. The urge to move, to be free if only for a few moments in the open air, struck her sharply and she yielded to it. Slipping from her narrow bed, she ignored the looks of her fellow convicts and stepped into the humid night. The sentries stationed around the camp ignored her. Sometimes it felt as though it would be all too easy to walk about from this sorry excuse for a life. Although, of course, there was nothing to walk to beyond the dangers of the bush. Certain death awaited anyone who attempted escape, though Anne fantasised about it almost as often as she fantasised about the prospect of returning home. In recent weeks those fantasies had taken her to unexpected places, giving rise to blushes when she should have been concentrating on her work. No one knew her well enough to question her, of course. That was the way she had engineered it. That is, until Mary Johnson had infiltrated her heart.

Her feet took her to the shore. It was dangerous here at night, the only light coming from the camp. Anne could walk this settlement in her sleep, pace across it with her eyes closed. She would gladly accept the risk of death now for the prize of solitude. She groped her way onto a rock, feeling the angles slice into her legs. That would be how the flogging would feel, surely, were Mary unable to dissuade her husband from pursuing the matter. A hundred lashes, a hundred chasms wrought into her skin. Shivering, Anne brought her knees to her chin at the same time as the creak of a lantern told her she was no longer alone out here.

She stayed perfectly still. There was no reason, after all, why anybody should know of her presence. She was shrouded in darkness, the way she preferred to be. Whoever was behind the lantern progressing slowly to the waterline could only see her if they turned sharply and approached the rock she nestled on. Barely interested, her eyes followed the light then, as it dipped to the sand, her breath caught in her chest.

If something had impelled her out here on this dreadful night, then it had surely been a sign from another world. For here was Mary too, her face tilted up against the light breeze sweeping from the ocean.

Anne knew not what she should do. She had agreed earlier to retreat, maintain distance. Although she had no doubt that Mary would indeed bear a child and come to trust her again ultimately, that time was in the distant future, impossible to conceive in these monotonous, burning days of little rest and even less food. She certainly had no notion of imposing her company on Mary in the next days or weeks. One of the concerns plaguing her during this long day was how she should manage the distance required of her. She had dreaded seeing Mary from afar, just as she had this afternoon during the hanging, and being unable to neither comfort her nor love her openly. How they were to survive in the same settlement had been beyond Anne's comprehension, and yet here they were in the darkness, mere feet between them.

The waves crashed against the shore, guzzling up the sand then hurrying away like the thieves livng nearby. Mary placed the lantern down, briefly shrouding her face in shadow again until she sat down beside it and drew her knees to her chin. It was a mirror image and Anne found herself attracted like a moth to a flame. There were only so many signs she could ignore, even if her will to do so remained. It had disintegrated the moment she allowed her eyes to roam over Mary's figure.

Sliding noiselessly from the rock, Anne let sand bristle over her ankles as she moved across to stand beside the woman who believed she had betrayed her. Towering over her, she wondered for a moment if she seemed threatening – a random convict promising harm – until she realised that Mary was entirely aware of who was sharing the night with her. Tilting her head to the side, Mary gazed at the square of sand directly to the left of her lantern. It was the nearest to an invitation Anne could hope for and so she sat down, capturing sand in her fingers and allowing it to trickle away.

'Are you following me, Anne?' asked Mary.

'I promised that I would not,' she answered. After a moment, she explained, 'I felt constricted. I needed to feel the breeze in my hair.'

'The breath in your body,' Mary murmured.

'Yes,' she said with a soft smile. Her gaze caught on Mary's face, the contours of her cheekbones and lips glimmering in the dull light. Then, in her chest, her heart prickled. Their similarities, the way they understood each other innately, may very well be her undoing. A connection which Mary now doubted the existence of shone in Anne's heart as a beacon. It tore into her breast as fiercely as seeing Mary crumple to the floor had earlier.

'You do not try and defend yourself,' observed Mary abruptly, her eyes still fixed on the ocean. She had not looked at her once. Perhaps she could not.

'No,' said Anne.

'You have me alone,' Mary muttered. 'My husband is not here to condemn you, I am too worn even to argue, yet you do not attempt to defend yourself.'

'No,' she repeated.

'Because you admit your sins?'

Swallowing, Anne slid her hand into the sand, feeling the grains catch on her fingernails. 'No.'

Finally, Mary turned towards her, eyes glistening. 'You must say more than that,' she insisted.

The intensity of her gaze disarmed Anne. She mustered all of her strength to prevent her reaching out with a trembling palm to comfort Mary as she had wanted to this afternoon. That way lay heartache for them both; ruin perhaps for this – this woman staring at her and the noose, perhaps, for Anne herself. And, yet, she could not to admit to deceit she had not practiced. That would be, in itself, deceit against Mary. She could not countenance that, not now.

So, instead, she said, 'I am not guilty of the sin you believe me to have practiced upon you. That is the only defence I have and I shall not repeat it again.'

Mary's brow contracted. 'You admit other sins?'

'I am a convict,' she returned, lowering her chin.

'That is no answer,' Mary said. 'Look at me. Anne – look at me.'

With reluctance, she raised her eyes. The determination on Mary's face was nothing short of beautiful. It illuminated her features, brightened them in the darkness. For a moment Anne felt unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare at this stunning woman. Perhaps, though, the expression on her own face gained a wolfish tinge. Mary recoiled a little, physically leaning away from her.

'It is another ploy,' she murmured. 'You must think I am very foolish.'

'No,' she said again. It was the only word her mind brought forth and she knew it to be weak. She could not explain, not in a manner that would satisfy Mary without drawing forth more questions. Yet she could not completely disengage. She suspected she would never be able to do that now. With Mary's attention fixed on her, she had to fathom a real answer of some sort. At length, she added, 'The last thing I believe you are is foolish, Mrs Johnson.'

'Then why do you look at me so?' Mary questioned in a whisper.

'Because . . . because . . .' The words died in her throat, suffocated by the reality of their situation. Admitting the truth would gain her nothing and cost her what little she had left. 'Because,' she went on in a firmer voice, 'I feel guilt for causing you pain.'

After searching her face, Mary said, 'I have believed much you have said, Anne. I wish to believe that too.'

'I could not ask for more,' she replied. Then, before she thought much about it, she hurried on, 'May I be permitted to speak a moment longer?'

Mary inclined her head. 'The desire to defend yourself is too strong after all.'

'No,' Anne said, the repetition of the word raising Mary's eyes to her once more. 'I do not seek to justify anything. I only wish you to know I regret telling you that I could not read.'

'Is that all?' asked Mary.

'That was deceit,' Anne answered.

The flickering flame of the lantern rippled across Mary's face. She looked exhausted, aged by the day beyond all comprehension. 'And you have deceived me in no other way?' she queried.

Although a lie hovered over her tongue, Anne could not bring herself to utter it. Instead, she said, 'I have not deceived you in the ways of which I am accused.'

'I do not understand,' Mary murmured.

For a few glorious seconds Anne gazed into her eyes, drinking in all she could before they were forced to part. This night was an amnesty, she could not fool herself otherwise. In the harsh light of day Reverend Johnson would reassert his anger. He would keep them apart. This could very well be the last conversation they had for months or longer.

Finally, she exhaled, ashamed of the tremble in her sigh. 'You may in time,' she said. Then she continued, 'You should return to your tent, Mrs Johnson. It is late.'

A small smile played across Mary's lips as she reached for the lantern. 'You still act as though you care, Anne.'

'The time for pretence has passed,' she returned, watching the progress of the slender fingers until her heart ached. 'Remember,' she added, lifting her chin with effort, 'I have nothing to gain. Any benefit I may have derived as your – your friend is gone. Your husband would ensure that, even if you did not. If I act as though I care then, surely, there is only one explanation for that.'

Mary was half-enthralled, though she attempted to mask it. Anne, by now, knew every strand of this woman's personality and the expression on her face kindled hope in her chest. Not hope for _that_, there could be none in that quarter. And, yet, perhaps there was more in their future than distance.

To save Mary the difficulty of responding when she clearly could not, Anne rose abruptly. Then she turned. The desire to offer a hand to Mary was as potent as the desire to raise her from the floor had been during their earlier confrontation. Without Reverend Johnson glaring at her this time, Anne yielded to it. She stretched out her hand and, miraculously, Mary took it. Although it lasted for mere moments, Anne knew it was more than she had the right to expect and treasured it all the more for that.

With the lantern hanging low, they were both blind in the darkness. They stood facing each other in silence until a gust of wind swept over the sand. It seemed to bring Mary back to life and she stepped away.

'Goodnight, Anne,' she said softly.

'Goodnight,' she murmured in return.

She stood fixed to the spot until the lantern became a speck and then a memory. Only when she could be sure that no one was likely to stumble upon her did she kneel upon the ground and rest her hand over the sand where Mary had sat beside her. It soothed her, if only a little.


	2. Chapter 2

Reverend Johnson allowed Anne to suffer for a week before he told her that she would not be flogged for her fraud against his wife. She accepted his words without comment, relieved yet not wishing to be beside him for a moment longer that was necessary. She had barely tolerated him before. Now she loathed him more than she could have articulated, if, indeed, she had somebody to articulate it to. Without Mary's companionship, Anne had isolated herself from the rest of the camp. She worked, she ate and she slept. She endured the other duties of life inside the camp and she shrank from any unnecessary interaction. It was the only way she could survive.

The weeks wore on into months. Anne lost track, only noticing the day of rest as a break to the monotony of life in New South Wales. Even that caused her pain, serving to remind her of the bond shared by Reverend Johnson and his wife in which she had no role. It was weak-willed, she knew, but the more she tried to drive Mary from her mind, the more she lingered. And, yet, Anne had been true to her word. She had maintained distance from Mary, however it wounded her to merely watch from afar. That was her fate and she grew used to it. She could not force herself to forget, nor could she prevent her eyes searching for Mary in the settlement every moment of the day. Whenever she located her, though, she was disappointed to find her gaze unreciprocated. It was vain of her to hope for forgiveness, yet she yearned nonetheless. And so the days wore on with unremitting regularity and Anne sought sanctuary in her deepest fantasies, the life she could never live and the love she could never receive.

It was Sunday and the camp was quiet. Convicts were enjoying their one day of rest, conserving the energy sapped by the heat and dwindling rations in their tents following attendance at church. Anne could not bear to be amongst them so she repaired to the beach and the place where she could best indulge her desires - the spot where she had sat in the darkness with Mary. Expecting to be left alone, she was thus surprised when a figure thumped down beside her on the sand.

'James?' she questioned, glancing over her shoulder for the ever-present Private Buckley. She had shunned contact with both since Tommy Barrett's hanging, though for her it was more disinclination to involve herself than the visceral hatred which had enveloped the rest of the settlement.

'Do you wish me to move?' James asked.

She turned her attention back to him, noting his exhaustion. 'No,' she murmured.

'Thank you,' he said with unmistakable gratitude. After several minutes of staring into the ocean, he continued, 'You look miserable, Anne.'

'Are we not all miserable?' she returned.

'You are the only person I am able to ask why,' he said. Then he smiled wryly. 'Except Buckley. I am growing to like Buckley. We talk. Who do you talk to, Anne?'

'I have no need to talk.'

'That is a lie,' James replied. 'You may talk to me, if you wish. I have no one to share your secrets with, after all.'

'That is true,' she said. For a few moments she ruminated on the possibility then, before her mind was altered, she queried, 'Do you still love Elizabeth?'

James flinched and inclined his head. 'I do.'

'Despite the fact that she cannot bear you?'

'I love her enough to endure that.' He paused. 'Are you in love, Anne?'

'Yes,' she whispered.

For the first time in many months, there was a flicker of fascination on his worn features. 'Is it a convict?' he questioned. 'A soldier?'

'Neither,' she said.

'That is rather cryptic,' he said then he crossed his arms. 'Please tell me it is not the Governor or Captain Collins.'

She smiled. 'It is not.'

'That leaves Reverend Johnson,' remarked James.

Shivering, Anne said, 'Not the reverend, no.'

There was nothing but confusion on his face for several seconds until he chuckled. 'Now I understand.'

His mirth startled her. 'Are you not surprised?' she queried. 'Disgusted?'

'I have known of it in the past,' he answered.

'I had not,' she muttered. 'Is it not . . .'

Sighing, he dug his heels into the sand. 'Look at us, Anne. We are marooned, in a new world far away from England. None of us are the same people who made the journey. I was a pickpocket,' he went on. 'I am now a friendless hangman doomed to watch the woman I love used by soldiers.'

'How do you suffer that?' she asked quietly. It was something that tormented her, the image of Mary and her husband trying to conceive the baby she was desperate for. The idea revolted Anne, yet she could not banish it from her mind.

'I suffer it because I must,' James said. 'I cannot blame her for her hatred. I hope one day she may forgive me. I pray,' he added in a softer voice, 'that she may yet grow to love me.' He took a deep, shuddering breath and glanced to her. 'And what of you, Anne? What do you wish for?'

'Her,' she murmured. 'Every day from dawn to dusk and all through the night.'

He watched her with a small smile on his face. 'We are not so different, you and I.'

Meeting his gaze, she said, 'Perhaps not.'

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes. Anne would concede that being near to another person was not as vexing as it might have been, though that may just be because James was as miserable as she was. They were similar, she would certainly admit that, and James needed a friend as much as she. However, she was mindful that association with him could antagonise her fellow convicts. One of her abiding desires in this land was to survive. That was the only thing apart from Mary she cared about and fraternising with James could jeopardise that.

Eventually, their peace was disturbed. Anne heard Buckley speak to someone and braced herself for what she assumed would be an altercation. James stiffened too then he peered over his shoulder and jumped to his feet. Anne followed his gaze then leapt up too, startled to see Mary in such close proximity after weeks of attempting to study her from afar.

'Mrs Johnson,' she said with a petrified look towards James.

He merely bowed. 'I shall not impose upon your hospitality further, Anne. Thank you for your kindness.'

With that, he returned to Buckley and the pair departed. Anne's heart was hammering in her chest. If she had doubted the veracity of her affection for Mary, this encounter would have put such fears to bed. She looked back to the reverend's wife, wondering what she would see on her face. It was primarily intrigue, she realised, tinged with something akin perhaps to anxiety. Although she was adept at reading people, Anne could not be sure in this instant whether she was reading what she desired to see in Mary's countenance. All she was certain of was that Mary was scrutinising her intensely. It was a test, perhaps, and one she was anxious to pass.

'Are you well, Anne?' questioned Mary.

Her eyes flicked automatically back towards the camp, searching for a suit of black. 'Is everything . . .'

Mary grasped her meaning. 'My husband is in a meeting. My presence was not required.'

'Oh.' Anne did not know what else to say. Her senses were drinking in every aspect of Mary's appearance, from her tired yet tanned face down to the swell of her breasts which Anne immediately detected and traced to their root cause. 'Can I help, Mrs Johnson?' she asked after a lengthy pause.

Gesturing to the sand, Mary said, 'May I join you?'

'Of course,' she murmured, returning to her seat on the sand. She wondered if Mary recognised this spot, whether she realised she deliberately sat here to remind her of their last conversation. She glanced to her right as Mary sat beside her, desire coiling with anxiety in her stomach. Although she warned herself to be wary, she could not help her unbidden reaction to Mary's presence.

'You look ill, Anne,' Mary said following several moments of silence.

'I am not,' she replied. 'I am suffering no more than anybody else here, and less than some. I am fortunate in some respects.'

Mary was gazing at her, a glimmer of affection in her eyes which Anne had thought long spent. 'You are hungry.'

Anne couldn't contain her chuckle. 'That does not distinguish me in New South Wales.'

Reaching into a pocket sewn into her dress, Mary withdrew a handkerchief folded around something soft. She pressed it into Anne's hands, their fingers brushing. 'Take this,' she said.

'What is it?' Anne questioned, glancing up with a frown on her face.

'Only a little fish from my breakfast,' Mary replied.

Though her stomach ached at the prospect of more food, Anne handed the parcel back. 'I do not want it.'

Mary's forehead creased. 'You are hungry,' she repeated.

'Yes,' she conceded, 'but I cannot take your food.'

'I wish you to have it,' returned Mary, pushing it into her hands again. This time she rested her palm over the handkerchief, making it impossible for Anne to reject the gift. In truth, her mind was too occupied at the unexpected contact to argue coherently.

'I do not understand,' she said finally. 'You have not spoken to me for weeks and yet you seek me out to offer me food.'

'That we have not spoken does not mean I have not thought of you often.' Mary blinked and withdrew her hand.

Anne immediately felt the loss and looked back into the ocean to steady her thoughts, keenly aware that she should have prepared for this unanticipated meeting in her mind. In truth, the fantasies she had lost herself in had been too potent, too intricate. They may have been her key to survival in the weeks since their estrangement but they brought a flush to her cheeks now.

'Thank you,' she said, recognising that Mary's comment required a response. 'You have often been in my thoughts.'

There was a pause before Mary said, 'You have not spoken of what –'

'No,' Anne cut in. From nowhere, a ball of heat swelled in her stomach. She wrapped her hands around the handkerchief, feeling the fish inside buckle under the pressure. Turning to face Mary properly, she said, 'If this is a reward for saying nothing then I truly do not want it. I promised you I would not speak of it and I shall hold to that until the day I die.'

Mary stared at her, as if trying to fathom a puzzle. 'I do not understand,' she said at length. 'I have been dwelling on your words the last time we spoke. Do you remember that night?'

'I remember every word,' Anne returned.

'Your candour unsettled me,' said Mary, dipping her eyes to the handkerchief still on Anne's lap. 'It is true that you have nothing more to gain from my friendship. Even if I were foolish enough to allow myself to be duped again, my husband would never countenance you accompanying us back to England. You know that.'

'I do,' she murmured.

Mary swallowed and pressed her index finger into the slither of sand between them. 'And yet you wish us to be friends?'

'Yes,' Anne said, a tremble in her voice.

Her attention was fixed on Mary's bowed head, as though looking away would shatter their connection. She remembered all too well the hours they'd spent together not far from this spot, Mary trying to teach her to read. Had she really once lifted her head and questioned if she could come to her that night? It all seemed so distant, so golden. Anne's reply had been unhesitating, yet that had been before she truly accepted her feelings. It was that night more than anything, listening to Mary speak to her lost children, which solidified her emotions. The tearful recounting of the reverend's alteration in attitude from the first dead baby to the last had touched her deeply. She had said nothing at the time but she had felt much. She had ached to reach out and comfort Mary but she had dared not.

'Mrs Johnson,' she said quietly.

Mary's head lifted immediately, confusion swimming in her beautiful eyes. Perhaps there was a part of her that still expected to be duped, even as she sought her out in this way. That detail, Anne realised with a shiver, was highly important. Last time they had been brought together by fate. Today, Mary had not only wanted to speak to her but she had brought food with her, in strict contravention of the rules. The hope that had flickered in her chest during their last meeting so long ago now roared into a fire and, this time, it was not merely chaste friendship it burned for.

'Yes?' Mary prompted.

Anne met her gaze once more. 'I have longed for your forgiveness,' she answered. 'I have thought of little else. Because I promised to leave you alone, I have been unable to speak freely but that does not mean I have not felt the distance between us and regretted it.'

Searching her face, Mary eventually nodded. 'It is better my husband does not know of this.'

'I understand,' said Anne instantly. She could not help the smile that bloomed on her lips and, to her delight, it was mirrored on Mary's face. For a moment they looked at each other then Anne glanced down to her lap bashfully. 'Thank you for the fish,' she added.

'You are welcome,' returned Mary before standing. 'I must go.'

Anne cast her eyes upwards slowly. 'Yes.'

When she turned to leave Anne could not help but watch her progress across the beach. It was breathtaking and, with the sudden realisation that Mary's olive branch may mean more that even the bearer allowed, Anne was left reeling alone on the sands. Though she mitigated the sensation slightly by devouring the fish, her mind was more active than ever throughout the lengthy day of rest and into the night.


End file.
